


I'll tell you my sins (and you can sharpen your knife)

by thelostcolony



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: (to a point), Anal Sex, Blood Kink, Bottom Ethan, Dominant Dorian, Dorian Gray And His Licking Problem, Dubious Consent, Edging, I should be ashamed that I wrote more smut so quickly but all I am is proud, M/M, No Knives Actually Used In This, Painplay, Riding Crops, Submissive Ethan, Technically a tag to s1e8, because who would have it any other way amiright, that will become a tag if it kills me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-08 05:55:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21230903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelostcolony/pseuds/thelostcolony
Summary: "Good morning," Dorian greets Ethan, smiling benignly. "I'd tell you to take care not to track blood on the floors, but the servants have cleaned far worse."Ethan stares at Dorian, whole body trembling. He's covered head to toe in blood: it coats his skin like syrup, thick and coagulating. His hair is stringy with it. His clothing sticks to him with how deeply it's soaked.When he speaks, his voice is a hoarse croak. "What?"





	I'll tell you my sins (and you can sharpen your knife)

**Author's Note:**

> hi there ! So I suppose I should be embarrassed that I've written two fics of smut in the last three days but I have Zero shame and a HUGE need for bottom ethan so here have this filth I hope you enjoy it

It's a surprise in and of itself that Mr Chandler has returned to him simply because Dorian believes Ethan to be the sort to have some wild, masculine crisis about being fucked by another man and never wish to partake again. Which, of course, Dorian is perfectly fine with, even though Ethan _ was _a spectacular guest and a truly enjoyable partner. Though, Dorian will say that he's particularly pleased that Ethan's returned — and in such a violent state.

"Good morning," Dorian greets Ethan, smiling benignly. "I'd tell you to take care not to track blood on the floors, but the servants have cleaned far worse."

Ethan stares at Dorian, whole body trembling. He's covered head to toe in blood: it coats his skin like syrup, thick and coagulating. His hair is stringy with it. His clothing sticks to him with how deeply it's soaked.

When he speaks, his voice is a hoarse croak. "What?"

Dorian rises from the chaise in one graceful, fluid movement, wine glass in hand. "The blood," he repeats as he stalks toward Ethan, more swan than wolf. "The servants won't mind it."

"It's not mine," Ethan says, clearly struggling to keep up with Dorian's train of thought. He's a brilliant man, Mr Chandler, even under the influence of alcohol, so Dorian finds it curious that he should be so slow on the uptake. "It's... I didn't know where else to go. I wanted..." 

He trails off, gaze going distant as though he's looking through Dorian rather than at him. Dorian quirks an eyebrow, intrigued beyond measure, and finally gets close enough to touch. He doesn't, though. Not yet. "Wanted...?" He prompts, and Ethan's fractured eyes meet his.

"To forget," Ethan says, and then smashes his mouth to Dorian's.

It's more brutal than the first kiss they'd shared: this is all teeth, a fight for dominance, meant to incur brutality. Dorian allows it to happen, lets Ethan plunder his mouth with teeth and tongue, and Ethan's hands find the glass in Dorian's grip and hurl it to the side. Glass shatters.

"Hope you didn't like that glass," Ethan says between bites to Dorian's lips. He tastes like blood and sweat and salt.

"I hope you know what you're asking me for," Dorian returns, because this is about more than a shattered glass. Ethan pauses mid-bite, teeth locked around Dorian's lower lip, hard enough to draw blood if Ethan so wished it. Dorian wouldn't mind — but Ethan likes to pretend he can be gentle. He likes to forget that he is war-made and battle wrought, that every kiss doesn't taste like gunpowder and sin. He likes to have love made to him.

Dorian offered the violence of sex to him that first day: offered to rut on the ground like dogs, feral and destructive, and Ethan had ultimately chosen the bedroom. Everyone has their own flavor, Dorian finds, when it comes to sex, and Ethan's is the desperate desire to be unlike the savage his experiences have made him out to be.

Even now, this violence is interesting. Ethan wants to forget. Dorian won't inquire as to what, because he's simply not made to care in that way, but he is curious as to what incited such barbarous behavior. If Dorian were to follow Ethan's _modus operandi_, it would be sex that's sweet. Not chaste, for Ethan is as dirty as the rest of them and craves far more than he claims to, but there are only certain boundaries Dorian can push before the dog bites the hand that feeds.

Ethan's answer is a deep, rumbling growl. "If I wasn't sure, I wouldn't do this." He bites down in a quick snap of his jaw. Instantly Dorian's mouth floods with blood, and Ethan licks into Dorian's mouth as if to drink it. Dorian pushes against Ethan's chest, the lightest of touches, but it's enough to stop him.

His eyes are bright, feverish against his pallor, and he's breathing like he's run twelve blocks, huge inhales and brief, stuttering exhales. Dorian takes in his appearance, swallows the mouthful of blood, and nods slowly.

"Very well. To the bedroom, then."

"What happened to here? Fucking on the floor?" Ethan demands, recalling — just as Dorian had — the words spoken to him during their first coupling, the dangerous thing Dorian had offered.

Dorian looks at Ethan, long and steady, and something quells beneath that gaze, settles in Ethan's skin. He's exquisitely responsive, and lowers his eyes under Dorian's scrutiny.

Dorian moves without a word, and Ethan trails behind him, submissive in the shadow of the dominance Dorian's just displayed. Just as well, Dorian thinks; he doesn't mind breaking those he beds, doesn't mind pulling them apart piece by piece, but something tells him Ethan wouldn't appreciate that attention. Not tonight, at least.

They reach the bedroom, and Dorian jerks his chin to the mattress. "Strip, and then wait for me there." Ethan obeys immediately, fire all but gone, and shucks his sopping clothing. It makes a wet splat when it hits the marble flooring, but Dorian doesn't care: there will be no stains, and Ethan's clothing is far from a priority of his.

Ethan, fully naked, kneels on the bed with his back to the room, face to the wall. "What'll it be, then," Dorian says as he goes to the closet, opening the chest there. "I assure you, I have anything your mind can conjure."

"The whip," Ethan says immediately, voice raspy but without shame. Dorian pauses, hand hovering over it, before he selects the riding crop instead. Better to keep Ethan on his toes.

And besides: Dorian is all for exploration and discovery, but he is not a tool with which to self flagellate, and will not be an active participant in his own objectification.

He kneels on the bed behind Ethan, ghosting his fingers down Ethan's back and pressing Ethan onto his hands and knees. Goosebumps rise where he touches, his fingertips skirting against warm, freckled skin, unblemished but for a few nasty looking scrapes. They're already several days old, by the looks of them: they're healing nicely, scabs without redness. He pays special attention to these areas, tracing and tracing.

"Get on with it," Ethan barks, and Dorian's fingers dig into Ethan's hip until he can almost hear the joint groaning under the pressure.

"You need not speak," Dorian says, deceptively mild as he lightens his grip to that bare touch again, fingers traveling over the red marks they've made. It'll bruise well, Dorian knows: that sort of touch always does on creatures like Ethan. "I will go at the pace I wish, and you will accept what I give and nothing else. It's this, or you can show yourself the way out."

Ethan is silent for a few moments, deliberating. Then he slowly lowers his cheek to the mattress, pillowed on his arms, accepting. Subservient. Presenting.

Dorian smooths his palms over the small of Ethan's back. "Good," he praises, and continues his mapping of Ethan's skin.

He finds scabs here and there, the odd freckle of a patch of them. Ethan has a cluster of them near his left shoulder, three in a row like Orion's Belt. Dorian presses each of them, marking them for attention by bruising them well. Ethan is still and silent through this treatment. Dorian can't see his face, but he's sure it's one of discomfit and frustration. Ethan isn't someone who appreciates examination.

Finally, after an agonizingly long while, Dorian leans over and presses kisses down Ethan's spine, starting from near the back of his neck and traveling downwards towards his tailbone. Ethan's skin tastes vaguely of copper; the blood of his clothing had soaked through to his skin, clung there. The tang of metal against Dorian's tongue is pleasant, if not heady.

He gets to Ethan's tailbone and dips his tongue into the crease there, just once, before he works his way back up Ethan's spine again. Ethan makes a soft sound, something far from happy, but quiets when Dorian's fingernails dig into his waist again. Ethan has a bad habit of trying to incite Dorian's anger, Dorian's violence, and Dorian hopes that this lesson will make it abundantly clear that he's in charge. Ethan can abide by the rules of their _tete a tete,_ or he can abandon it altogether.

He scrapes his teeth over to Ethan's left shoulder, nipping lightly as he goes. It's not enough to break skin; it's not even enough to mark. All it does is brings a pleasant flush to otherwise pale skin, a rosy color that highlights the bloody tint to Ethan's skin nicely. Dorian does the same to the other shoulder, dragging his teeth, and when he hits Ethan's mid back he at last seals his lips and starts to suck a bruise. Ethan's skin quivers beneath his lips, finally adjusting to this gentle adoration, and that's when Dorian lifts himself from Ethan's skin, standing at the edge of the bed. Before Ethan can even wonder where he's gone, he tightens his hold on the crop, and strikes with all his might.

Ethan jerks violently, back arching as he cries out. A nice welt instantly rises against his skin, inflamed and angry looking, and Dorian presses Ethan back to the mattress and lays his teeth over it, biting hard. Ethan makes a pained noise as Dorian locks his jaw and pulls, and blood bursts over his lips as he breaks skin.

He doesn't bother to lick it up: it runs in rivulets down Ethan's ribcage, droplets falling to the bed sheets. Dorian doesn't watch them: instead, he raises his arm back again and lands a welt nearly on top of the last, and Ethan buckles under it with an aborted shout. This one Dorian bites also until he brings blood, and when he rises Ethan has a pretty set of two bleeding bite wounds, overlaying each other nicely.

Dorian allows them to sit for a minute, allows Ethan to feel the pain. His breathing is heavy and wheezing in the large room, almost echoing, and Dorian relishes in it as he draws his arm back and strikes again, this time on Ethan's buttocks.

Ethan jerks forward, a harsh rock, and a low moan rips itself from his throat. It's pained, not aroused, but Dorian is hardly in a position to care whether it turns Ethan on or not. This is what Ethan asked for, and all pets must learn their place. Dorian strikes again, almost exactly mirroring the welts further up, and Ethan lets out a yell, hands flying out to fist in the sheets near his head.

Dorian lets loose then, bringing the crop down against Ethan's back again and again and again. His arm doesn't grow tired; his hands don't grow sore. He switches from left to right and back again when he's looking for a particular angle, but for the most part he strikes with abandon, watching Ethan arch away each and every time.

When he finally hears Ethan whimper rather than shout does he slow down, offering one last harsh smack to Ethan's upper thigh before stopping altogether. He wastes no time: he seals his lips over the nearest ones, biting down hard, and Ethan chokes wetly on another whimper. Dorian sinks his teeth into the various welts he's placed on Ethan's back, listening again and again to that strained cry and waiting patiently for the one he wants to hear.

It isn't until he hits Ethan's upper thigh, the very last welt he placed, that he receives it: a loud yelp, almost a wail, and Ethan shying forcefully away from him, curling protectively. Ah, yes: it does so ache when they finally understand the pain they've brought upon themselves, but it's a pleasing sight nonetheless.

Ethan, in his scramble to curl away, has revealed his front to Dorian fully. He's half hard, barely flushed, and his eyes are creased only in pain. There's no pleasure to be had in his expression, no longing, no craving. He lies on his side, helpless to turn fully over thanks to the mess Dorian's made of his back, eyes bleary with tears and anguish so deep that it steals Dorian's breath away in the best of ways.

"Well?" Dorian asks evenly, brandishing the crop with disingenuous ease. "Did you enjoy your foray into pain? You're familiar with violence, Mr Chandler, I know you are. Tell me: did this satisfy that beast under your skin, or do you long for something different? Something else I can provide?"

Ethan stares at him, eyes wet, breathing unsteady. Dorian lowers his voice, tenders it. "There's nothing you could say that I would not do, were you to fully desire it. You need only ask."

Ethan blinks at him, and two tears trail down his cheeks. He doesn't seem to notice them. "I want to forget," he repeats, a whisper. 

Finally making progress, it seems. Dorian regards Ethan with a modicum of gentleness. "And how would you like to forget?"

Ethan swallows, adam's apple bobbing. Dorian isn't distracted by the movement, keeps his eyes locked on Ethan's, a silent battle. Ethan cracks first — just as Dorian had known he would — and lowers his eyes in submission. "Fuck me," he whispers, and his cheeks pink in the most flattering of ways.

Dorian bows his head in a way that suggests concession, like he's granting Ethan a dire favor. "If that's what you would like," he agrees, and Ethan nods, eyes still downcast. "We go at my pace. You're free to make any noises this time, but your opinion isn't required. Unless it's to tell me to stop, you need not speak." It's a clear order. Ethan is, after all, so good at following those.

And he follows the one Dorian has given now. He doesn't speak as Dorian retrieves a cream from his bedside drawer and tells him to lie flat. He doesn't offer his protest when Dorian settles beside him to deftly but languidly spread it across the welts he's dealt. There isn't an untouched patch of skin to be had, but Dorian regrets nothing. Ethan is thoroughly punished now for attempting to use Dorian, and in light of Ethan enduring his discipline so gracefully, Dorian is more than willing to soothe the shame still broiling under Ethan's skin. The beast still seeks comeuppance, and Dorian will provide it.

He rubs in the cream thoroughly, until Ethan's welts look less angry and have lost some of their inflammation. He presses his lips to them, feels the way Ethan stiffens and then slowly uncoils when all he ends up doing is chaste. He doesn't lick: he doesn't suck. He kisses, training Ethan's skin to accept punishment and be rewarded well for it.

Ethan has long since relaxed into the bed under Dorian's ministrations, sighing softly as Dorian's fingers begin their phantom trailing again, alleviating the pain further. Dorian watches him be lulled, hovering in a place somewhere between wakefulness and sleep as Dorian tends to him. He's fully exhausted — it's likely the state he arrived in contributing to that — but Dorian knows he won't sleep. Not yet, at least. The beast has yet to be satisfied.

Dorian sweeps Ethan's hair away and presses his lips to the back of Ethan's neck, so lightly that his lips barely brush the skin there. It's enough to rouse Ethan, though; he makes a soft, inquisitive noise in his throat, like a cat. It's oddly endearing, and one side of Dorian's mouth lifts as his kisses grow deeper, more insistent.

For the first time since being ordered not to, Ethan speaks. "Can I beg?"

Dorian is so taken aback by the request that he almost pauses. Almost. "Yes," he permits after a moment of thought. "You may."

"Please," Ethan whispers with every touch of Dorian's lips against his skin. "Please... please... please..." It continues, a steady sound that doesn't change pitch, doesn't change tune. It's perfectly in time with each of Dorian's kisses. "Please... please..."

Dorian grasps Ethan's hips, coaxing them upwards so Ethan's knees are underneath him. Folded like this, Ethan looks stunning, worthy of a portrait. It's an idea that makes Dorian's skin heat, and he carefully ponders the logistics of it as he reaches under to take Ethan in hand.

Ethan keens, soft and desperate, but it's a pretty sound. Dorian strokes leisurely, not in any particular hurry, and feels Ethan's cock hardening. He teases, twisting his wrist, and drinks in the gasp that escapes Ethan's mouth. With his other hand, he pets Ethan's side, nails leaving light tracks in their wake.

Ethan doesn't grow insistent: he simply takes what Dorian is offering, loose fist and slow pace and all, making the occasional sound. Truly, Ethan is good at following orders, always trying to please where he can. Dorian says jump, Ethan asks how high. It's a lovely way to be.

He keeps Ethan steadily aroused for an immeasurable amount of time. Ethan seems to lose himself in the mantra of it, in Dorian's unchanging pace and his own exhaustion. He remains hard, wanting, and continues to make noise, but they're distant, faraway sounds. Head space will do that to you, Dorian muses, and twists his wrist. Ethan moans quietly, more a mewl than anything.

By the time Dorian finally moves on, Ethan is putty in his hands. He scoops out more of that same cream — it's got no medicinal properties, simply there to soothe welts and provide lubricant in situations like this — and generously coats one finger. He prods at Ethan's entrance, waiting until it relaxes enough to grant him entry, and in one smooth movement sinks all the way to the third knuckle. Ethan sighs deeply.

"More," he murmurs. "Please."

Dorian smiles. He doesn't add another finger, simply working with the one he's already inserted, but he is merciful: he finds what he's looking for in no time, rubbing at it and delighting in the groan that rumbles out from Ethan's chest. Less distant: getting better.

Dorian adds another finger, scissoring. Ethan groans again, shoving his fist against his mouth, then seems to remember he should be making noise and removes it, grabbing the sheets instead. Dorian presses against that spot again in approval, and Ethan inhales sharply as the pleasure hits him.

"Please fuck me," Ethan says, plaintive, and Dorian removes his fingers so that he can slide in a third. Ethan moans, long and loud, and his eyes roll back. The display is certainly flattering.

Dorian withdraws again, this time lining up, hands on Ethan's hips. That one hip did bruise, quite gorgeously: it's a mottle of purple and blue. 

Dorian's been hard this whole time, but he's well versed in patience of this sort, and has control that he's been cultivating for several hundred years. This is child's play.

He presses in, tantalizingly slowly, and Ethan moans again, whole body shuddering. Dorian angles himself as he sinks inwards, and as he's taken in to the base Ethan gasps. Perfect.

Dorian begins to move in that slow, almost lazy way he'd been stroking earlier, hitting that spot with every thrust. Ethan's exhales are punched out of him, pleasure simmering to a boil, and it isn't long before he's pleading for it to be harder, faster.

Dorian maintains his pace. "Tell me," he says conversationally, thrusts perfectly measured, "what was it you found yourself doing that rendered you so covered in blood?"

Ethan makes a sound not unlike a sob. "Killed - a roomful of - people. Torn - throats." It's punctuated with every thrust of Dorian's hips.

Dorian hums. Interesting. "And why did you do this?"

Ethan gasps, fingers curling in the covers. "Don't - know. Can't - remem - always - black out."

Dorian is silent for a moment, processing. Ethan is quiet beneath him save for his heavy breathing every time Dorian hits that spot. "And so you came to me?"

"Yes!" a moan. "Wanted to - be someone - else. Knew you - wouldn't care - about the blood. Needed - someone like - me." Someone who understands violence, and understands my nature. Someone used to seeing gore, and not flinching.

Dorian snaps his hips, brutal out of nowhere, and Ethan yelps. "And you asking for the whip?" Dorian asks, almost coldly. 

Ethan shivers in shame. "Wanted to - be hurt. To pay for - what I did. Didn't think - you'd mind."

"But you've learned your lesson now," Dorian says, and when Ethan doesn't reply raises a hand and pressed down against his back. Ethan cries out. "Yes?"

"Yes!" The sound of skin slapping against skin as Dorian increases his pace. Ethan pants, breaths getting louder.

"And next time?" Dorian perseveres. "Next time, what will you do?"

"Ask! I'll ask, Christ!" The words are angrily phrased, but Ethan's voice is high with something like anxiety. "I'll ask!"

Dorian speeds up a little more. Ethan moans. "You seek to repent for what you've done," Dorian says, pulling nearly all the way out and slamming back in. "And so take it from me. You're released from shame. You've told me of it, and now can let it go."

"I killed - so many - people," Ethan insists between gasps. "Can't - get off - that easy."

"Oh?" Dorian says, arching a brow. "You think this is easy?" He shoves deeper, harder, and Ethan convulses.

"No," he grunts into the mattress. "But repenting shouldn't - feel good - like this."

"And why not?" Dorian asks, keeping his brutal pace, striking Ethan's prostate each time. "Why should repenting not merely be experiencing the pain of admitting your shame to another person? Of allowing that person domination of you, the ability to extract it? Why should not repenting toe the line of pleasure, when you feel so guilty experiencing it?"

Ethan keens. "I - I'm going to - "

Dorian smiles rakishly. "Come," he commands as he shoves a hand against Ethan's welted back again, and a tremble rolls through Ethan's body as he does so, body shaking. Dorian himself follows closely behind, dropping over the edge as he sinks deep again, allowing his carefully controlled pleasure to overwhelm him.

He pulls out when he's finished, regarding Ethan below him. Not without care, he pulls at Ethan's ankles until his knees come free and he lies flat on his stomach again.

Ethan's chest rumbles as Dorian lays beside him. "S'good," he murmurs, opening bleary eyes to look at Dorian's face. He shifts slowly, tucking his head beneath Dorian's chin and curling up against Dorian's side for body heat. "S'nice. Thanks."

Dorian carefully puts his arm around Ethan's shoulders, avoiding his back. "I have that pain now," Dorian says, not unkindly. He feels the way Ethan shifts, listening. Ethan's heart slows its frantic beat against Dorian's own. "You get some sleep now."

"Didn' mean to," Ethan says sleepily, burying his nose into the crook of Dorian's neck. "Jus' happened."

This is really something to explore at another time. Ponder in another place. "Sleep," he commands softly, and Ethan does.

**Author's Note:**

> !! I hope you enjoyed this ! it's only my second time writing smut, so please let me know what you thought of it and where I could mayhaps improve for the future! I'd really appreciate any feedback, thank you so much for reading !


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